Sinner
by Asterie-Smiles
Summary: Strip any love story to its barest bones, and you'll find that its source is basic human weakness...especially this one. Harry x Draco slash
1. Prologue

Sinner 

**by S_Star**

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  Much of the information, especially the in-depth stuff and quotes, comes from http://deadlysins.com – the Seven Deadly Sins homepage.

**Rating: **R

**Pairing: **Draco/Harry

**Summary: **_I made a list of my sins, once upon a time.  I made a list of his virtues and my sins and then I burned it all away, because no one really cares, in the end. _

Strip any love story to its barest bones, and you'll find that its source is basic human weakness...especially this one.  _H/D slash_

**AN: **^_^ This is my baby, my pride and joy, the fic I began way back in June when I first read OotP, and it's finally in the very finishing stages of production (beta-ing, attempted illustrating, frantic spell-checking...).  I'm gonna post chapters at regular time intervals, though I'm as yet unsure of what those intervals are going to be.  This prologue doesn't really reflect the fic much; it's pretty much irrelevant, but I've been told to post it, so.... *shrugs* Oh, and the fic gets a whole lot darker in later chapters.

Sinner – Prologue 

_Good boys never win_

_They all fall away_

_And you remain_

~ Blondie, 'Good Boys'

I made a list of my virtues, once upon a time.  I made a list of his virtues and my sins and I burned it all away, because no one would really care, in the end.

It was seven deadly sins that brought us down the road to today; all sins of mine, and none of his, which isn't actually all that surprising.

The first was avarice, love for money and material possessions: a definition of my life as it was meant to be. 

_(So much for my estate, his riches; what can we do when all we're left is a wasteland and two empty promise rings?)_

Envy seems to be the cause of so many things, and this is no exception.  

_(Mine, mine, MINE, dammit!  Does he not understand that he burns for me alone?)_

Lust is the sweetest of the seven, and certainly the most deadly.  

_(He was always the sweetest temptation, the diamond buried in a pile of rubble, but how can I break this spell I don't understand?)_

Sloth, the plea for just five more minutes, the certainty that your body wants no more than just to lie in peace forever.  

_(He never understood the pure bliss of just lying there watching the light play over the silken sheets, and it doesn't matter that Potions is my favourite lesson, because some things are much more important...)_

Gluttony is heading down to the kitchens every night for cream to slather across his skin, and licking a trail of strawberry juice down his chest. 

_(What does it matter whether the ice-cream's vanilla or toffee?  We both know it's just a side-dish, anyway.)_

Anger with him, with his friends, with the entire bloody world, a sin to tear the other six's fragile world asunder.  

_(I don't care anymore, do you understand me?  I swear to Merlin I will just walk out of that door unless you shut up and listen!)_

Pride: the pride of a Malfoy is his one true vice, and is probably the one I most regret. 

_(I won't go after him, I swear.  Not until he comes begging me.  It's all a matter of pride.)_

And as for virtues, I have none.  What else were you expecting to hear?****


	2. Avarice

Sinner 

**by S_Star**

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  Much of the information, especially the in-depth stuff and the quotes, comes from http://deadlysins.com – the Seven Deadly Sins homepage, definitions are from the Chambers Dictionary, 2003 edition, and compliments are from http://complimentday.com

**Rating: **R

**Pairing: **Draco/Harry

**Summary: **_I made a list of my sins, once upon a time.  I made a list of his virtues and my sins and then I burned it all away, because no one really cares, in the end. _

Strip any love story to its barest bones, and you'll find that its source is basic human weakness...especially this one.  _H/D slash_

Chapter 1: _Avarice_ - eager desire for wealth; covetousness.

AN:  First, I love my betas more than anything else in the world!  *huggles* Thanks to (in alphabetical order, no preference… ^_~) DKFairy, Dravenswann, ShadowDreamer and TrinityC for all their help.  Without them, this fic would never have got off my hard drive and probably wouldn't have made any sense whatsoever.

There is a short interlude (too small to post alone) included after each chapter, which actually serve a purpose as well as explaining things that may not be clear later on and paving the way for dramatic irony. ^_~ The interludes are named after each chapter's contrary virtue.

A quick apology note to the REALLY obsessive people out there; I know that it wasn't Friday 13th that year by canon, but it was necessary.  I'm putting this note because it's something that bugged me when I was writing it, and there've gotta be some others out there who notice things like that.  ^_~

Sinner I ~ Avarice

avarice _n_ eager desire for wealth; covetousness.  [Fr, from L _avāritia,_ from _avārus _greedy, from _avēre _to pant after]

~

My favourite day of the year has to be my birthday, April 13th.  It's a lovely day because it's the one time each year I can finally show everyone just who I am.

Christmas is all very well, but there are never any Gryffindors lurking around the Manor on that cold morning as I unwrap gift after lavish gift, and few people outside my own house are impressed with – or, indeed, even notice – the expensive trinkets that I carry, because they all have their own families to discuss or presents to show.

On my birthday, though, it is just me, surrounded by a sea of owls delivering whatever my many relatives and admirers have decided to adorn me with that particular year, and it makes it very difficult _not_ to notice me.

So I open each package and make a show of exclaiming loudly at each and every one, putting on however many new watches I have instantly and then complaining that the sheer _weight_ of all the silver makes my arm ache.

There was one year, however, where all of this went wrong somehow.

I decided that I wanted to walk past the Gryffindor table that breakfast time and show the Weasel how much money I had.  The Wonder Trio hadn't been as easy to trip up lately, and it was really beginning to grate on my nerves.  I mean, what's the point in having more than someone else if you can't show it off, especially as Potter should have understood by then that he would have been much better off in all senses if he'd taken my hand that day, years ago.

Think of it, the great Boy Who Lived being seduced into the darkness, not knowing which other path to take.  Think of the rewards I would have received for delivering him straight to the Dark Lord; the riches my father and my family would have gained, which I would have inherited in a short time.

At the age of eleven I had an amazing plan to capture the great Harry Potter and reap the rewards, somehow engineering my father's untimely demise along the way to gain the full benefits of my position as the only Malfoy heir.

Of course, in retrospect, that would really not have been practical: that boy always oozes self-sacrifice, and would probably not, even at that young age, have fallen for any such schemes: he would have been a Slytherin himself, obviously, and a predisposition for plotting and in turn sniffing out other plots is a house prerequisite.

Anyway, what matters is that he chose Weasley, and I hadn't forgiven that by my eighteenth birthday.

I walked towards the staff table – with a trail of my loyal friends and lackeys behind me, levitating my many piles of gifts – for a brief word with Professor Snape about an extension Potions assignment, and from there, the quickest route out of the Hall was past the Gryffindors.

I sauntered along the aisle between them and the Hufflepuffs, shooting glares at the younger years as I passed, until I reached the Sixth and Seventh Years at the end of the table.

The head of the Potter Fan Club, Ginger Weasel or whatever she's called, instantly put down her slice of toast and leaned over to get her brother's attention.

He, Potter and the Mudblood looked up at me, and, while the latter realised instantly what was going on, the other two seemed clueless.

'Malfoy,' began Weasel carefully, 'Where on Earth did you get that brooch?'

I looked down and fingered the brooch twinkling on the lapel of my robes.  'My Aunt Bella sent it,' I replied haughtily.  'Her consort charmed it himself, especially for me.'  I ran my thumb across the silver dragon's ridged back, wincing as I cut myself on the razor-sharp tail.

Weasel didn't suppress his snicker, and neither did Potter, but Granger looked at me curiously.  'Aunt Bella as in Bellatrix Lestrange?'

I rolled my eyes.  'How many other Bellas do you know with access to this much money?  And I thought you were meant to be bright,' I scoffed slightly, all the while curious as to exactly how much the Triumvirate knew about my family tree.

If anyone had heard about my great uncle Xavier, I would commit hara-kiri in a heartbeat.

'And by consort,' she continued, 'you mean...' A pause, in which Potter shot her a pointed look down the table.  'You mean Voldemort?'

My Slytherins and I flinched at the name and Potter shot us an incredulous look.  Presumably he didn't expect that reaction from those who were chosen to follow the Dark Lord, even though he had witnessed the same response at the end of Fifth Year, when my father had been sent to prison because of the bloody Boy Who Would Not Die.

I was curious as to exactly what kind of a response he _was_ expecting, though: we had all been raised cursing his name and fearing the Lord's.  Fear and blind obedience; that was what was required of us, and the knowledge or and desire for that glittering reward at the end of it all was enough to keep my head down, at least for a while.

'I really don't think that's any of your business, Mudblood,' I replied coldly.  'I'll see you in Potions, Potter...And Weasley?  I hope not to see you again for a good, long while.'

I beckoned my entourage to follow as I turned to sweep away, but Potter called after me, his first words to me that day.  'Oh, wait!  Malfoy?  Happy birthday.'

From somewhere inside his robes he extracted a parcel that couldn't have been much larger than a chocolate frog packet and tossed it over to me.

I caught it and shook it.  'What's this meant to be, Potter?'

He shrugged, reaching for the jug of pumpkin juice.  'A present.'

I frowned. 'A present?  What is it, poisoned confectionary? A portkey that leads to the middle of the ocean?'

He smiled that annoying demi-smirk he always wears when he's thinking of a private joke.  'Just a present.'

I raised an eyebrow and turned back to the door, leading a pack of very confused Slytherins back to the common room to drop of all my new things.

**~**

I waltzed into Potions class ten minutes late, content in the knowledge that Snape wouldn't ever dock points from _me_, especially on such an important day.  Sliding into my seat next to that idiot Longbottom – 'Maybe, if you're extremely lucky, some of Mister Malfoy's intelligence will rub off on you' – I began to empty my bag, methodically setting out my ink, quill, spare quill and parchment in the same way as I always do.

'Um...Malfoy?' asked Longbottom, cringing away as I turned to look at him.

'What?'

'Aren't you gonna set up your cauldron?'

I span all the way round to meet his gaze with the practically patented Malfoy glare.  'No, I'm not going to set up my cauldron.'

He seemed to be visibly moving away from me at that point.  'B-but if you don't, how're we meant to…'

'Listen, Longbottom, there is no way I am putting another of my top-grade cauldrons through the ordeal of holding one of _your_ concoctions.  I have already had to write home twice for new ones in the past month, and while I'm sure my mother will be glad to buy one for me, each purchase is a substantial bite out of my inheritance.  I'm not entirely sure a person of your standard would understand that, but—'

'That is the most crap I've ever heard from anyone, Malfoy,' came Potter's voice conversationally from my other side, 'and I live with the most disgusting Muggles you could ever imagine.'

I wrinkled my nose and muttered a soft prayer for salvation.  'To what do I owe the pleasure of your delightful company?' I drawled, leaning one elbow against the desk.

He rolled his eyes and shrugged.  'I was just wondering if you'd opened my present, that's all.'

Longbottom piped up then.  'You got him a _present_?'

'It wasn't anything fancy.  Just a small token of my appreciation.'

'Appreciation?'  I raised a somewhat overworked eyebrow and he shrugged again.  It's a habit of his, the shrugging, as if he never quite knows what to say.

'You'll see.'

So I took the bait.  'All right, Potter, I get the hint.'  With an exaggerated sigh I reached into my pocket and pulled out the gift.  It was clumsily covered in garish red paper held together by jagged strips of Spellotape and garnished with a silver ribbon that must have been charmed not to crumple.

I wasn't sure I'd ever seen anything worse wrapped, and my parents once gave me a large toy dragon that ripped holes in its paper and singed the bow.  Then again, Potter probably didn't know that there were spells and House Elves for that kind of thing.

I slowly ran a beautifully manicured nail – thank you, Daphne Greengrass – over the tape securing the end, drawing out the moment more and more as the mixture of anticipation and annoyance on Potter's face grew stronger.

'Dammit, Malfoy, will you just open it?  I don't want to leave Nott alone with my bag any longer than I have to.'

'And you really think that's an incentive for me to hurry up?'

'Well...Neville's started on your potion already!'  I had to give Potter some credit for that one; he knew that I didn't want any more failing grades: Longbottom's incompetence was the reason I asked for the extension work in the first place, and it was seriously beginning to affect my sleeping patterns.

As much as I hated to do it, I ripped the paper and looked down at the present.  At first I was slightly confused, then it turned to mild annoyance at Potter's silent laughter.

'The look on your face...' he managed to choke between giggles, and I glanced back down at the gift in my hand.  It was a book, and the title read: _The Little Book of Compliments: 101 Nice Things to Say_.  'Well?' he asked a minute later, having finally recovered.

'It's perfect, Potter,' I drawled, flipping through it randomly.  'I mean, what person doesn't want to hear that they...' I scanned the page, '..."have a terrific outlook on life"?'

'Some of them are kinda...odd,' he confessed.  'But you have to admit that it's appropriate.'

'A waste of money is what it was,' I scoffed.  'I mean, come on: "You make hotdogs taste like a gourmet meal"?  That's hardly what everyone dreams of hearing.  Besides, I'm sure you get enough of this rubbish from your fanclub as it is.  You don't need me to tell you that you "have a great reputation", do you?'

Potter shrugged again and I felt a sudden urge to hit him.  'Some people might.  The book suggests giving five compliments a day.'

'Okay then, let's get this over with.'  I skipped back through the book.  'Okay, then, Potter, you are..."unique",' I began with a smirk.  'You are "a picture of good health", even though you look like you have some kind of eating disorder.'  I flipped through to the very end.  'Ah, these ones are better.  You are "the light of my life",' I continued, my voice devoid of all true emotion but heavily laden with boredom.

Potter looked as though he couldn't decide whether to be angry or amused.__

'You are "the wind beneath my wings",' I added.  'That's four, right?'

He nodded and I opened my mouth to deliver the final compliment that would hopefully ever cross my lips.

Before I could speak, however, I heard bubbling coming from behind me, and spun round to see that _idiot_ Longbottom adding armadillo bile to still-burning ash bark.  There wasn't enough time for me to duck behind Potter and use him as a shield, and my cry of 'Shit!' was lost in the explosion.

Wiping bile and a trickle of blood from my forehead a minute later, I picked up the book – which was still miraculously intact – and turned to the third page.  'Longbottom?  "You make working on a project a joy".'

I picking up my bag from its sheltered spot under the table and stormed out of the room, spitting back a harsh, 'Thanks for the great gift, Potter,' as I opened the door.

Just.  Bloody.  Perfect.

~

The next class, unfortunately for me, was History of Magic, which was, for some reason no one has yet fathomed, compulsory even at NEWT level – at least, since last year, stupid laws of nature.

It is normally blamed on the fact that the wizard in charge of the _very _small education department of the Ministry of Magic is still seeking revenge for his being Sorted into Hufflepuff despite being the brightest member of his class at his School of Primary Wizardry.  His first act was to abolish all British primary schools for being sources of false hope; and, as if to make up for that supposed kindness, he threw all sorts of awful subjects into the curriculum, like Divination and Muggle Studies.

Rumours that he is partial to Baruffio's Brain Elixer and a few illegal hallucinogenic potions remain unfounded to this day.

Of course, it was only to be expected that History would fall on my birthday, and not just because of the handy Montrose Magpies calendar that Blaise gave me for Christmas.  It was only on my eighteenth birthday that I could possibly have all three lessons with at least one of the Gryffindors, but luckily I was free after lunch, before my Practical Astronomy lesson in the evening.

Only _my _birthday would fall on Friday the thirteenth.

I hadn't actually noticed that fact until I arrived at the History room: we only have one lesson a week, thank Merlin, and for me it signifies the blessed promise of the weekend.

I dawdled my way up to the classroom and loitered outside, absently kicking the wall beside me as I tried to remember some of the basic healing charms we'd been taught a few weeks before.  Of course, I hadn't really been paying much attention: Charms is the only subject other than History that I have with the entire Gryffindor Trio, and that particular lesson had been spent trying to adapt a communication spell to follow Potter round, screaming obscenities.  It had ended up whispering them to him, and his friends thought he was going mad as he pressed his ear against the wall and tried to hear the voice.

I ruined the entire plan with a sneer of, 'What's wrong, is there another snake in the pipes, Potter?'

Overall, it was a lesson well spent, but not exactly useful to my situation.

'_Asuago_,' I muttered, pointing my wand at the cut on my forehead.  It was still dripping small amounts of blood down past my eye, but the pain had dissipated slightly.  Feeling more confident, I tried a cleaning spell, but it gave me the unpleasant sensation of having poured an entire bottle of shampoo into my eye.  I charmed a quick jet of water at it and wiped the mess away with a silk handkerchief with the Malfoy crest embroidered in the corners, but it was still raw and leaking the occasional tear when the Gryffindors materialised beside me, as if from nowhere.  I hadn't heard the bell go, but there were other people rushing round everywhere, including the Third Years escaping from Binns's class.

'Merlin, Malfoy, you look like you've been crying your eyes out!' came the obnoxious tones of the Weasel.

'Oh, Weasel,' I said in as sugary a tone as I could manage, 'You are "very alert".'  I was proud of having remembered another inane compliment, and smirked at Potter.  'I want to take back what I said about your gift, Potter.'

He took a step backwards in surprise, narrowly missing stepping on Pansy's toe.

'Some of those compliments make perfect insults,' I finished somewhat contentedly.

'What the hell do you mean, Malfoy?' he asked, and I noticed more than ever that his obnoxiousness seemed to increase in the Weasel's presence.

'My, Potter, you "have a great way with words",' I recited.

'Malfoy, are you feeling okay?  You seem much...stranger than usual.'  The Mudblood frowned at me, hands on hips.

'I'm fine, thank you, Granger.  Just looking at your face "makes me glad to be me".'

She blinked twice in confusion before turning and rushing into the classroom, which gave me the distinct impression that she had absolutely no idea what I meant by that.

Despite the tears and streaks of blood trickling down my cheek, I suddenly felt much better.

Professor Binns was, as ever, oblivious to the wound scarring my as yet unmarked skin, and probably very unwilling for me to go to the Infirmary, so I had to be content with Daphne's medical prowess, which mostly consisted of her trying to poke me in the eye with her wand and make it look like an accident.

Most of the rest of the time was spent playing Forfeit Poker with my new set of "Heroes of Quidditch" playing cards, which resulted in, among other things, all of our homework parchments going up in flames.

Granger was outraged at this and ran to the front of the class.  'Professor...Professor, our papers...they're on fire!'

'Yes, yes, wait until I've finished this section.'

'But Professor, they're burning!  All our work!'

'That's nice, Miss Grimshaw, but I'm sure it can wait.'

'But...'

Then he noticed, and with the most emotion in his voice any of us had ever heard him use, cried, 'Now students, don't panic, but your homework is on fire!'

We had, of course, all conveniently forgotten the charm to put out the blaze, and even Wonder Boy seemed somewhat amused as the ghost tried to spell it, to no avail.

'Quick, students, _extinguo_, _extinguo_!' he shouted, floating back and forth like Peeves when he saw new students for the first time.

Eventually Brown did it because the fire was spreading towards her desk, but a good twenty minutes was consumed by the fiasco, after which Binns instantly picked up from the middle of the sentence he'd had to cut off.

The Gryffindors seemed mildly entertained by our game after that, and Finnigan even insisted on joining in when Blaise upped the stakes to stripping.  He tried to make Thomas join in, too, and I'm sure I wasn't the only Slytherin who wondered whether there was something going on between them.

The most interesting part of the lesson by far, though, was when the first male player was forced to remove his shirt; and I noticed that Potter, who hadn't seemed to mind looking at any of the girls, blushed and began to take an unhealthy interest in his pot of ink.

I thought about how I could use that against him, and for a moment contemplated seducing him and then delivering him to the Dark Lord.  Then I realised that such a plan would _never_ work and would probably end up with the development of unwanted and unhealthy emotional ties, which could get extremely messy for everyone involved.  Instead, I thought I'd just mess with his mind a bit.  After all, it was my birthday.

~

Charms passed with everyone from Slytherin and Gryffindor – except Granger and Potter, who looked on with disdain and amusement respectively – practising their _incendio'_s on anything they could see, and Flitwick decided to give up trying to teach us the theory behind that and other elemental spells when the fifth fire shot up from the back of the room.  Instead, he gave us all a lecture regarding the safe use of such spells and the correct spiral wand movement required to cast a good _extinguo_.

This, of course, inspired us to practice, and to our delight we discovered that the application of the wrong wrist movement can cause large amounts of water to shoot out at the target fire, rather than it being put out dry.

The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs sitting at the front seemed mystified by the whole thing, and many of them looked extremely scared when the Weasel stood up and acted out the fire scene, especially when he started using a high-pitched squawk for Granger's part.

Unfortunately, Flitwick set us a four-foot essay on the purpose of motion when casting elemental charms, asking for it in first thing on Sunday morning, despite our complaints.

As Daphne and I picked up our bags and hurried down to lunch, my head ached and I felt slightly sick, but I still thought the day was finally beginning to look up.

This continued with assorted Slytherin games during my free session and the afternoon 'study time', including the (far superior) magical version of the Muggle game 'Twister', in which the unoccupied spots change colour after each turn.

However, I had a practical Astronomy lesson at nine, after dinner, in which Professor Sinistra leaves us unsupervised to work on our NEWT projects – 'that's a third of your overall grade, so I expect it to be _good_, understood?' – which is basically kneeling in front of a telescope for an hour pretending to know what you're looking at...at least, it is in the Weasel's case.  Some of us can actually _do _Astronomy.

At nine on the dot I climbed gracefully up into the top observatory section of the Tower, idly wondering whether Sinistra held her practicals on Friday and Saturday nights because we didn't have to get up early the next morning or just to discourage couples from holding their assignations up here.  I suspect it may be the latter, although judging by the head count, its effect as a deterrent is wearing off after so many years.

I was just setting my telescope to face the constellation Draco when I heard voices from below: Potter and the Weasel.  It wasn't surprising that Potter was there; he and the Mudblood tend to accompany their little friend to stop him going mad and throwing himself off the top of the Tower.  It wouldn't be a tremendous loss, but with Potter's guilt-complex I suppose they have to at least make an effort.

'Ron, why on Earth did you take Astronomy, anyway?  I wouldn't voluntarily climb these stairs three times a week.'

'You know that I didn't have a choice, mate.  This and Divination were the only other subjects I did well enough in to continue, and I wouldn't want to risk another two years with Trelawney.  I mean, what was I meant to take, Muggle Studies?'

Potter laughed, and I could practically _hear_ his expression: it was the 'fondness and tolerance for the Weasel' look, the one he got when he knew Weasley was being stupid but didn't want to hurt his feelings.  He should have been a Hufflepuff, although his picking that imbecile over me in the first place proved to have been a very brave choice, in the long run.

'I know, I know, aren't I entitled to complain once in a while?'

They were getting louder now, and the other people around the room were rolling their eyes at this weekly event...or rather, nightmare.

'And why couldn't 'Mione come tonight, anyway?'

'She's in the library. Said she wanted to get well ahead on her Charms essay before we go to Hogsmeade tomorrow.'

They came through the trapdoor at that moment and dusted themselves off with the same casualness we all showed.  They'd done this a million times before, even Potter.

'So, do you and Weasley come here often, Potter?'  I asked when he caught my eye, and he flushed before spitting out a 'Good evening to you too, Malfoy.'

I realised that maybe baiting Potter would be easier than it had first seemed.  But before all of that, I had to finish tonight's work.  Taking out a quill and some parchment, I began to sketch a rough sky map, when raucous laughter cut across my concentration.

For a moment, I actually wished that Granger were there, because she tended to keep those two quiet when they were interrupting others' work.  How was I meant to concentrate with their constant yelling about nothing?  For Merlin's sake, no one _cares _about the Chudley Cannons; their team motto says it all loud and clear.

I stewed for a long time, torn between getting my work done and going over and spelling both their mouths shut, but when I eventually made up my mind to just punch them, I noticed that I'd been absently doodling all over my star chart and that the sky had been covered with a thick layer of cloud, making it impossible to see any of the constellations.   Bloody Potter.

I gave in and packed my stuff away, but stopped before I reached the trapdoor and carried on across to where Potter was showing Weasley how to position the telescope and charm it to track a specific satellite, as useless as the lesson was in that weather.  It made me wonder exactly how discriminating Sinistra was in selecting her NEWT classes: he certainly wasn't up to even OWL standard if he didn't know something as simple as how to use a telescope.

By that time, everyone else had already gone, and I was left standing there with Potter and Weasley glaring up at me.

'What is it now, Ferret?' the Weasel hissed: that name was always a particular favourite of his.

I imitated Potter's nonchalant shrug.  'I just wanted to give you something.  A share of my good fortune, as it were.'

Potter stood up and drew his wand.  'What are you playing at now, Malfoy?'

'Exactly what I said, Potter.'  I reached into my pocket and picked out a handful of change.  Among it was one of the newly introduced five Galleon notes, which my grandmother had sent me along with another fifty Galleons and a year's supply of Bertie Bott's Beans – 'every time you eat one, a new one appears in its place!' the ad insists. 'You'll never go hungry again!' – 'Weasley, take this and tell your mother she can give the family a decent meal for once.'

He stared at the money as if it was about to spring up and bite him, but eventually he took it and held it up to the light.  'Bloody hell, Harry, it's real!  I didn't think you could get these yet!'

'Please, I'm a _Malfoy_,' I drawled by way of response, turning and leaving before I had to watch the Weasel defiling my precious money.

The trapdoor snapped shut behind me, but I could still hear their supposedly hushed voices from upstairs.

'Ron...did Malfoy just...give you money?'

'...I think so.'

'So...was he just..._nice_ to you?'

'I really don't know, mate.  But I do know that that git wouldn't do anything to his own money; he loves it too much.'

'Are you sure, Ron?  I mean, you never know with Malfoy, he sometimes does some really weird things.  You missed Potions earlier...'

Their voices faded as I walked further away, a smirk on my face and a spring in my step, although I'd probably deny the latter in public.

At that moment, there was a party in my honour under way down in the dungeons, and I wanted to get there before Crabbe drank all the Firewhisky.

I just _love_ my birthday.

~

**Interlude: Liberality**

liberality _n_ the quality of being liberal; magnanimity; broadmindedness. [L _l__ī__ber__ā__lis_ befitting a freedman, from _l__ī__ber_ free]

~

_Diary – _

_Today was Malfoy's birthday, although I suppose you knew that already.  Today was his birthday, and I think it actually went okay._

_I mean, the present was a hit, at least.  He spent a lot of time saying each compliment in the most sarcastic voice he could muster, and I guess that was what he meant when he told me that they make great insults._

_I knew the second I saw it that it was the perfect gift – not too serious, not too mean, and open to interpretation.  Of course, I didn't know why I was buying it when I did.  I just thought it would be a good joke, y'know, something to piss him off and possibly even – shock, horror – make him think at the same time. I didn't think it would come to mean anything, but it kinda has._

_I say kinda because it isn't a promise ring or an emotional tie or anything like that, it's just...a private joke.  Maybe._

_I don't know._

_When he used some of them before History of Magic today, to Ron and Hermione, the two of us almost shared a smile over them, which begs the question WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!_

_I don't like Malfoy; I never did like Malfoy, and I don't understand how anyone could like him, except for the fact that he has a lot of money and a lot of influence, two things I myself have in abundance, whether I care to use them or not._

_He also has annoyingly nice eyes, but that's hardly going to help him make friends, is it?_

_I suppose I should just leave it: after all, I guess that present was meant to be a sort of dig at him, but I don't know, he seemed to have a sense of humour or something today, even with streams of blood pouring down his face._

_ARGH!  I think I'm going to give up on this train of thought: it's getting me nowhere, and I don't even know what I'm trying to find out, anyway._

_I've got more important things to worry about, as it is: Hermione wants me to go speak to Andy Moon to see how he feels about her.  She's either planning to ask him out or break up with him; Mione's love life has always been taboo among the three of us; but I have to do it anyway.  I hope for Ron's sake that it's a breakup, though: if he fell any more in love with her, he'd be wearing tights and serenading her from non-existent balconies._

_I really should get some sleep, now, though: we're going to Hogsmeade tomorrow, and I don't want to be late again._

_Oh, but before I forget, Malfoy gave Ron a five Galleon note.  One of the new ones.  I know, it's completely out of character, and I don't understand it.  What's up with him today, has he been visited by the ghost of birthday past or something?  Argh, lame joke, ignore me, it's nearly midnight._

_Night,_

_Harry_

**~**

'[Avarice] is a sin directly against one's neighbour, since one man cannot over-abound in external riches, without another man lacking them... it is a sin against God, just as all mortal sins, inasmuch as man contemns things eternal for the sake of temporal things.' 

~ Thomas Aquinas, Medieval theologian

**TBC...**

**AN: **Just a quick explanation about the classes. ^_^ I was going to do the schedule the same as our A-Levels, but a quick check in OotP showed that to be a Healer or an Auror you needed 5 NEWTs instead of the 4 I was going to put (British edition, p. 578 and 582), so I upped the number.  They now have their 5 subjects plus the compulsory one lesson a week of History, which I see as being similar to the General Studies course done in some schools.  

Both their lessons were VERY carefully selected, and I wrote out the entire daily timetable and general schedule for both of them, as well as Ron and Hermione.  If you for some reason want to see this, it's at random amusement. 

Oh, and Draco supports the Montrose Magpies because they are 'the most successful team in the history of the British and Irish League' (QTTA, p35).  I just thought it sounded very Malfoy.

^_^;; I know I'm a very sad person, but it's useful, really!

Oh, and the papers being on fire was drawn from real life...except it was actually a bin that caught light.  Yes, there are seriously teachers out there like that.  Scary, huh?****


	3. Envy

**Sinner  
****by S-Star**

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Much of the information, especially the in-depth stuff and quotes, comes from – the Seven Deadly Sins homepage, and definitions are from the Chambers Dictionary, 2003 Edition.  
**Rating: **R  
**Pairing: **Draco/Harry  
**Summary: **Strip any love story to its barest bones, and you'll find that its source is basic human weakness...especially this one. _H/D slash  
_Chapter 2: _Envy_ - a feeling of discontent at the good looks, qualities, fortune, etc, of another.  
**AN: **For Cissa, because there's really no one else I could even imagine dedicating it to. I apologise to all for the wait and how horribly anticlimactic this chapter is. ;  
As always, much love to my betas TrinityC and ShadowDreamer for being absolute angels!

**  
Sinner II Envy**

**  
envy **_n_a feeling of discontent at the good looks, qualities, fortune, etc, of another. Fr _envie_, from L _invidia_, from _invidēre _to look askance at, to envy, from_ in _on, and _vidēre_ to look.

The day after my birthday, I woke up with the worst hangover I think I've ever had, and of course found that Blaise had taken the last of the Analgesic Potion from my bedside cabinet. I therefore made the mistake of deciding to miss out on breakfast and make a new batch, which resulted in me having to leave for Hogsmeade ten minutes late with my hair still dripping wet and ungelled. My shirt was half unbuttoned, and I was holding my wand between my teeth and had my robes draped over my arm as I attempted to do it up and still manage to be on time to meet Theodore and Millicent on the way down there.

Of course, luck would have it that Potter was also running late, and he bumped right into my back as I raced out through the Entrance Hall, sending my wand skittering over the hard stone floor into the shadow underneath the staircase.

I glared at Potter accusingly until he _accio_'d it over for me, and then made him hold it and my robes as I tried to straighten out the creases in my shirt.

He flushed as I undid it and tried to finally get all of the buttons in the right holes, so with a smirk, I drew it out as long as I could, delighting in his discomfort.

'Robe,' I demanded, holding out a hand for it.

'What?'

'Daydreaming again were you? Hand. Me. My. Robe...Now.'

Turning the colour of Weasley's sunburn – not a pretty sight, I assure you – he passed it over and cocked his head to one side. 'Why is your hair wet?'

I rolled my eyes, which sent a brief stab of pain through my still-aching head. 'Because it's raining down in the dungeons, Potter. What do you think?'

'I know _why_, it's 't you just use a drying charm on it?'

I gave him a look I usually reserve for Weasleys and the clinically insane. 'If you use a drying charm on hair without the proper application of conditioning potions first, it ends up looking like...' I thought for a moment for an appropriate image. '...your hair does every day,' I finished.

He self-consciously tried to push a few strands behind his ear, but failed miserably. 'How _do_ you dry it, then?'

'With appropriate Sleekeazy products and a hairdryer,' I replied, smoothing my shirt and checking my reflection in the nearest window.

'A _hairdryer_?' he asked incredulously. 'A _Muggle _hairdryer?'

I snorted. 'Don't be ridiculous, Potter, everyone knows that you can't use elec—ecle—Muggle-energy powered devices within the school perimeters. It's the same, just powered by magic.'

He frowned, thankfully not commenting on my forgetting that stupid word. 'So you're basically taking a Muggle invention and changing it so it's not Muggle anymore?'

'Don't knock hairdryers, Potter, my father has been voted Witch Weekly's Best Groomed Wizard on six separate occasions. I _know _these things.'

He followed as I pulled the door open and swept outside. 'But isn't using Muggle things very...non-Slytherin?'

'On the contrary, stealing other people's work is one of a Slytherin's defining attributes,' I replied, chin slightly in the air before a drop of stupid April rain hit me in the eye. 'Damn, I wish I could Apparate from here!'

'What?' he asked, seemingly shocked.

'For Merlin's sake, Potter, have you never read—'

'Hogwarts: A History?' he finished with a slight grin which was soon accompanied by a blush. 'You should probably be talking to Hermione about that rather than me, that bloody book's her favourite.'

'Don't be ridiculous, Potter,' I scoffed, having spotted Blaise standing on the path tapping his watch. 'Granger's not my type.' I shot him a wink before rushing elegantly down the stairs to my friends.

Hogsmeade, like so many places, was always nicest in the rain. I think it was because it has a place's equivalent of life-force: the lights in the shops and the cafés are all so inviting, especially when it's so dark outside that it may just as well be past midnight.

That's the one drawback of April – it's the anomalous month, almost a last rebellion of winter before summer takes over, and its weather patterns are as fickle as Professor Snape's loyalties – at least, according to my father's reports.

On that Saturday, it had gone from the occasional raindrop to a full-scale storm in the space of fifteen minutes, and every Hogwarts student was in one shop or another, trying futilely to dry themselves off. I was standing in the corner of Gladrags idly browsing a rack of discount silk robes and thanking Merlin that I hadn't had time to dry my hair that morning when I heard Potter's obnoxious voice floating over from the trouser section. Yes, trousers: although they've been part of the Hogwarts uniform for a good fifty years, it was only recently that they'd been introduced to mainstream wizard-wear. I'm not sure which magical fashion-guru started the fad, but you have to respect the man who realises that maybe the Muggles had the right idea in making clothes that cling in all the right places instead of billowing loosely like our standard robes.

'No. Fucking. Way, Hermione,' he enunciated, and my curiosity got the better of me at the most un-Potter-like use of the word 'fuck'. I edged slowly over, hiding behind a conveniently placed row of mannequins, and saw Granger holding up a rather cheap-looking pair of black leather trousers.

'Why not?' she demanded, brandishing them like a whip.

'Because...they're leather,' he replied feebly.

'And?'

'And...I'm not going to wander round school in _leather trousers_!'

Granger handed the trousers to the Weasel and put her hands on her hips. 'Harry. How on Earth do you expect us to be your own personal matchmakers if you don't even listen to our advice?'

I repressed a snicker at the idea of Potter having his own matchmakers, figuring that my own dear Blaise and Pansy didn't count because all they really wanted was to snag me for themselves.

' 'Mione, I never actually asked you to do this, y'know...'

'I know, but as your best friends it's our sworn duty to help you get laid.' A pause. 'Without actually...doing it ourselves, of course,' she added, turning slightly pink. 'Right, Ron?'

Weasley stopped his examination of the trousers. 'Yeah, that's right. But I think I agree with Harry about the trousers. They are slightly...whorish.'

Potter laughed and Granger looked outraged. 'Whorish they may be, but which girls do you notice, Ron? The ones dressed in proper uniform or the ones whose skirts are more like belts?'

He bowed his head as if in apology, reminding me of the House Elves when my father used to reprimand them for doing an unsatisfactory job. Of course, that was usually right before he cursed them and locked them in the dungeons for a week to 'teach them a lesson', but the principal was the same.

'Besides,' Granger steamed on, 'we have discussed this. We have to emphasise Harry's good points, one of which is undoubtedly—'

'His arse?' I couldn't help but chime in cheerfully, striding over to them. 'Maybe, but you have to take into consideration that these particular trousers will not only cling tightly to his buttocks, but also to his thighs. Does he have nice thighs, Granger?'

'Wh—what? How should I know?' she asked defensively, and all three of them backed away from me slightly.

'You noticed his backside, Granger, and if you were really going to be a successful fashion advisor, you'd know every part of his body intimately.'

'But he...I...we're not...'

'I know _that_, give me some credit! But surely you at least know his best and worst features? After all, that is what your entire leather hypothesis revolves around, is it not?'

'I guess...'

I folded my arms. 'Then does he have nice thighs or not, Granger?'

'Y-yes. Yes, he does.'

'Good.' I yanked the trousers away from the Weasel and handed them to Potter. 'Try these on with...' I scanned the racks and picked out a shirt, '...this top.' There was no time for him to complain as I ushered him towards the changing room.

I waited for the curtain to close behind him before turning back to his stunned sycophants. 'So, who exactly is Potter trying to impress, anyway?'

'No one,' replied Granger stubbornly, glaring coldly at me.

'No one?'

'No one in particular, no,' she repeated, and Weasley snickered.

'What's so funny?' I asked, trying desperately to find out as much as I could about Potter's love life: blackmail is nothing without inside knowledge.

'What would you say,' Weasley began, voice lowered, 'if we told you Harry was trying to impress _you_?'

I blinked. 'I'd say you were out of your tiny Weasel mind and should be shipped off to St Mungo's as soon as humanly possible. Why?'

'Oh, thank Merlin!' he breathed, and Granger began a garbled explanation.

'Because Harry said that yesterday you were kinda half-nice to him and even gave Ron some money and we thought that maybe...I mean, you come across as, well...'

Weasley picked up as she trailed off. 'You come across as being as camp as a row of pink tents. And I don't need your charity, just for future reference.'

I raised my eyebrow at them, ignoring the last twinges of pain and the Weasel's last remark – he wasn't making any move to actually return my gift, was he? 'And you therefore thought that I fancied a go with Golden Boy?'

'Yes,' Granger replied confidently.

'And so you were making him wear extremely tight leather in a place where I would undoubtedly see him at least once every day?'

'No, we were trying to dissuade you. The trousers are just so that he gets some offers, because...' Her voice also dropped, '...he hasn't even kissed anyone since Cho Chang in Fifth Year, and it's getting quite—Oh, my God.'

I turned round, following her shocked gaze, to see Potter wearing leather.

Yes, leather.

It took me a few moments to collect my thoughts and enable myself to speak coherent sentences.

'Yes, Potter, very nice, but I'm not sure that the shirt really suits it. Maybe you should try this one?'

I held up a black tank top with green trim and he jumped back as if he'd been bitten by a teething Kneazle.

'Malfoy, that top is just...well, poofy,' he finished in a whisper, his blush deeper than it had ever been, even during our earlier hair-care conversation.

'Your point being...'

'I'm trying to attract the opposite sex, not the entire gay population of Hogwarts!'

Not relinquishing my hold on the top, I placed my hands on my hips. 'No, Potter, you're trying to get laid, and if what Granger here says is true, it shouldn't make a difference _who_ it is as long as it's sex. Hell, if you haven't even been snogged since Fifth Year, you'd be lucky to be screwed by a House Elf. Now, will you try the damned top or not?'

He shot Granger a shocked look. 'Why did you tell him?!'

'Harry, he's _Malfoy_,' she said by way of explanation, and I smirked, content in the knowledge that I was superior to them all.

'Fine,' he grumbled, taking the top and turning back towards the changing room.

I think I imagined the extra swing of his hips.

Somewhere during the hour or so of Weasel-baiting and not gazing at Potter's arse, I managed to become responsible for picking out a whole new – and considerably tighter-fitting – wardrobe for the Boy Who Lived.

I must admit, I'd always had a weakness for shopping, especially for clothes: my parents – well, my mother mostly; my father was more responsible for the haircare side of things – took me into the highest class shops from a very early age, and I developed an infallible eye for fashion and the incredible ability to shop more than any girl of my age.

It was _very _lucky that my father was one of the richest wizards in the country.

We emerged from the shop while the storm was still raging, me clasping Potter's still-surprisingly-full money bag and Potter, Weasley and Granger carrying ten bags of clothes between them. I thought that at least Granger should have thought to use _wingardium leviosa_, but I may have been giving them too much credit.

I earned a few strange looks from both students and teachers at being seen with the Golden Gryffindors: the smugness in McGonagall's expression implied that she thought some of their supposedly good influence would rub off on me, and I smirked as I wondered whether she'd considered that one particularly strong bad influence is more likely to corrupt the others than be improved.

Besides, I wasn't planning to stick around the Trio for longer than necessary – it was just the clothes, the decisions, the spending... and possibly Potter's arse also played a substantial role in my enjoyment, but even Weasley seemed rather awed, and you can't blame me if Potter's hours of endless Quidditch practice paid off.

I finally managed to break away from them in The Three Broomsticks, making a beeline for the table where Blaise and Daphne were sitting sipping Butterbeer – 'no alcohol for Hogwarts students', as the sign claims – and putting my soaked cloak on the back of the chair nearest the fire as I went to buy my own drink.

The sight of Snape sitting in the corner nursing a bottle of Firewhisky made me wish I'd gone to the Hog's Head, but I thought I'd heard someone mentioning that Hagrid was standing by the entrance turning students away. It wasn't fair, as I was technically legally allowed to drink at eighteen – one year on from when a wizard legally becomes an adult, and one Muggle law I heartily disapprove of – and I glared randomly around as I waited in the impossibly long queue to order my drink.

Of course, luck would have it that the Trio were in the next queue over, talking impossibly quickly about what were probably completely inane issues, but I still decided to occupy myself by trying to listen in on what they were saying.

I didn't catch anything but boring discussion about the Charms homework until a rush of chill air signalled the entrance of a group of Hufflepuffs, and Granger turned to Potter, hands on hips.

'There he is!' she announced in a stage whisper, and Potter did something I'd never seen him do: he hid. He ducked behind Weasley and shot the Mudblood an evil look.

'Mione, do I really have to talk to him?'

She put her hands on her hips and stared him down. 'Yes, you do.'

'But what exactly am I meant to say? "Hi, Andy, I just wanted to ask you how you feel ab—"'

'Take your order, love?' The new girl behind the bar – was her name Miranda? – smiled prettily at me.

I leaned one elbow on the counter and watched curiously as Granger pushed Potter over towards the Hufflepuff table.

'Just Butterbeer, please,' I asked absently, handing her a Galleon. Potter and Andy Moon were walking away from the crowd and Potter was shuffling about nervously as he spoke. The Hufflepuff nodded as Miranda passed me my drink and my change.

'Anything else?'

'No, thanks,' I replied with a rather forced smile, picking up the Butterbeer and heading back towards the table. I frowned as I sat down, looking over at a giggling Granger ushering Potter over to their seats.

That was an interesting development. Not necessarily a _good _development, but definitely an interesting one.

That evening, as soon as I'd returned from Hogsmeade and waged war on my now-pristine hair, I settled down on the chair I'd claimed in the Common Room and drafted a list of potential Potter matchmaking candidates. I was so engrossed in my task – I was especially proud of a sketch in the top left-hand corner depicting Potter getting attacked by a giant rabid Flobberworm – that I didn't notice the time until Goyle walked over and blocked the light drifting over from a nearby candle.

I sighed and put down the parchment. 'Yes, Goyle?'

' 'S dinner time, Malfoy, you coming?'

'In a minute, yes. Why don't you and Crabbe go on ahead and grab me some chicken?'

He didn't move.

'What're you writing?' he asked after a few minutes, craning his neck to look at my amazing handiwork.

'This,' I said, letting a smile of pure evil cross my lips, 'is the first step to Harry Potter's downfall.'

Instead of eagerly asking me for all the details, however, he merely nodded. 'Oh. What is it this time? You gonna try and magic tarantulas into his bed again?'

I shook my head in despair. 'Goyle, that was a) in Sixth Year and b) revenge on the Weasel – yes, Weasley, _not _Potter – for refusing to pick up my new quill when he knocked it off the desk in Charms. And besides, that was childish magic nonsense that a quick _'Finite' _could solve in an instant. No, this, my friend, is the most simple and brilliant plan anyone could have possibly conceived. I'm amazed that the Dark Lord himself didn't already come up with it!'

By this time, I had quite a few of the lower year Slytherins shooting me curious glances, but still no reaction from Goyle himself. I would normally blame it on his stupidity, but he really isn't as dumb as he looks – that may not be all that difficult, but still. No, Goyle just acts stupid, as does Crabbe, but they at least know when to snap out of it and give me attention and the praise I deserve. Yet this was one of those moments, and I was receiving nothing but the occasional bored look.

'Malfoy, I really am hungry, and so's Crabbe. Can't we have dinner and then talk about the plot?'

I rolled my eyes in exaggerated exasperation but put the parchment carefully away in the pocket of my robes – all right, so maybe the loose, billowy-ness does have its advantages – and gestured for Goyle to lead the way. Inside, however, I was deeply hurt by his heartless rejection of my new idea. It was truly a work of genius and deserved to be appreciated; and I'm meant to be able to rely on Crabbe and Goyle to act as sounding boards and at least _pretend _to take an interest in issues like Potter, which will undoubtedly have a devastating impact on the future if they are not dealt with as soon as possible.

But I decided to swallow a very small proportion of my pride and go with them down to the Great Hall, partly because I remembered that neither Crabbe nor Goyle can concentrate on much when their stomachs are empty and partly because I was also starving, having eaten nothing all day in order to prevent myself throwing up due to the previous night's overindulgence.

By the time we'd arrived at the Hall, it was nearly full and everyone had already started eating. I was quite pleased to note that Pansy had already piled a plate up with all my favourite foods, and Blaise claimed responsibility for the layout of the chicken and the full goblet of pumpkin juice which accompanied it. All right, so I wasn't blind enough to think they had done this out of human kindness – they were Slytherins, after all, and Slytherins who'd been lucky enough to associate with me for seven years – but I still felt special...at least until Blaise leaned in too close for comfort and placed a napkin on my lap, smoothing it down unnecessarily with rather strong and lingering strokes. At that point I decided to think about the food itself and not its servers, and began to eat, mentally reviewing the list in my pocket.

When I looked up from my plate to help myself to more roast potatoes, I glanced casually up at the Gryffindors to make sure they weren't levitating any mushy peas my way, and noticed that Granger was giggling. I actually did a double-take, looking back down at my plate and counting to three before looking up again, but there she was; the epitome of prim, the quintessence of disapproval, the Mudblood who scorned all things frivolous, giggling like the youngest Weasley after a few puffs of powdered Gillyweed.

And she thought _I_ was acting strangely.

I narrowed my eyes in her general direction, willing her to stop before the sound of her raucous laughter put me off my meal, but it was one of those grotesque sights you stare at in horror because you find yourself simply unable to look away.

Next to her, the Weasel was choking on some disgusting morsel of half-chewed food as he tried to control his own laughter, and opposite, sunk down in his seat in embarrassment, was the unmistakeable Harry Potter. I couldn't see his face, but the back of his neck and the tips of his ears somehow peeped out from under his thatch of somehow-messier-than-usual hair and were flushed red. I leaned forward, trying to ignore Blaise's murmur of, 'Your napkin's slipping, let me get that for you,' and the accompanying actions, but could still hardly hear a word.

I'm sure it mentioned in Hogwarts: A History that the reason the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables were placed on opposite ends of the Great Hall was in order to prevent fights – especially food fights, but also magic fights and even Muggle-style physical fights – from breaking out between the two houses during mealtimes.

I doubt anyone really considered that Banishing Charms were likely to evolve in the following years, although it probably would have seemed rather unlikely at the time. Now we know that the average distance of a basic Charm has increased by at least five times since the trading of the tables, which has led to numerous inevitable food fights that were almost impossible to end, including one rather amusing incident last year in which Professor Flitwick got stuck under a very large slice of ice-cream cake and spent ten minutes trying to escape without his wand, which had been knocked under the Hufflepuff table. Unfortunately, I was so absorbed in watching him writhe like a cockroach under Cruciatus that Potter was able to get me right in the face with a slice of still-warm apple pie, but that is neither here nor there.

Anyway, the tables still have not been moved closer to one another again, and it was just bloody difficult to try and understand what any of the Gryffindors were saying, especially Granger, who talks far too fast for me to even consider lipreading.

I slumped back in my seat in frustration, not even caring when Crabbe leaned over and took three potatoes from my plate. The laughter had stopped by then, even though Potter was still blushing that unhealthy shade of tomato, and I was incredibly annoyed that I'd missed whatever it was Weasley and Granger were teasing him about. Given the day's many bizarre conversations, I guessed it was something to do with his non-existent love-life, which would make perfect material for my beautiful plan, which I'd almost completely forgotten about.

'Crabbe, Goyle, we're leaving,' I announced, pushing Blaise's hand off my lap and ignoring their complaints that they'd miss dessert.

However, when they began to glare menacingly, I agreed that I would go ahead and meet them in the Common Room.

But just as I was turning down the corridor that leads to the dungeons, I heard a familiar voice echoing from the entrance to the hall.

I looked round and saw Potter – well, who else could it possibly have been? – calling after Moon, who was heading towards the Hufflepuff Common Room.

Glancing round, I made the snap decision to hide inside the broom cupboard that was conveniently located by the Hall entrance.

I ignored the mop that was poking me rather painfully in the back and pressed my ear against the door.

',,,Talk about this now...' I heard, and cursed inwardly at the thickness of the stupid door. Why would they need a three inch thick slab of mahogany to protect a closet of cleaning supplies?

'...isn't it obvious?...' I sighed and decided to give up on improving the sound quality, and instead concentrated on trying to work out whose voice was whose.

'...need an answer...' Just when I was about to decide that this was all pointless, I heard Moon's raised voice echo round the Entrance Hall.

'I don't want to discuss this with you!'

'I'm sorry, too, but I have no choice!'

'I understand, but why...' And the voices dwindled again as I tried to piece it all together. Well, I suppose it was fairly obvious what was going on, but you never know with Potter. There was once an unfortunate incident when I walked in on what sounded like him and Granger shagging but was, in reality, the two of them trying to fix a desk in the Potions room before Snape realised it had been broken. Then again, it was pretty hard to suspend belief on this one...

'Yes, I understand...don't get why...'

I rolled my eyes. Moon again. 'I understand, but...' Stupid Hufflepuffs, not worth the space, really.

'...not up to me...more time?...'

And finally it seemed as if they were finished, so I waited until the footsteps sounded like they were a good distance away and stepped confidently out of the cupboard, brushing down my robes and trying to maintain my air of dignity and poise.

'Coming out of the closet, Malfoy?' Potter smirked. 'Don't worry, everyone already knows.'

I turned round and glared at him. 'What're you still doing here? I thought you and Moon had gone off to continue your little tryst elsewhere,' I asked, genuinely confused but damned if I'd let him know that.

Potter nodded and his eyes widened as if he'd just realised something, an amazing feat for someone with the intellectual capacity of a dead Flobberworm. 'Is that what you were doing in the broom cupboard, Malfoy? Eavesdropping on my conversation?'

'Of course not!' I scoffed. 'It's your own stupid fault for carrying on a private discussion in the most public area of the school, especially when everyone coming out of the Hall can hear you.'

He raised an eyebrow and I narrowed my own eyes, annoyed that he'd somehow gained the ability to do that and once again taken something from me. 'What exactly _were_ you doing in there, then? And don't say looking for a broom, I'm not that stupid.'

'Could've fooled me,' I muttered, trying desperately to think of a witty and believable response. It may seem as though I always know the right thing to say, but in reality, most of my insults take careful preparation, and I sure as hell hadn't given any consideration to this situation.

'And why do you care about what Moon and I were doing, anyway?' he continued, clearly not expecting me to have a plausible answer, and I realised that I'd actually lost this one. I swear, spend two bloody hours with a group of Gryffindors and you'll go just as soft as they are. 'Are you jealous, Malfoy?'

I laughed out loud. 'Jealous? What? Potter, did someone spike your pumpkin juice? Where the hell did you get that idea?'

'Methinks he doth protest too much,' he recited, and I rolled my eyes dramatically.

'What could I possibly be jealous of? '

'You tell me.'

I pretended to think for a moment. 'Let me see...absolutely nothing.'

'Malfoy,' he said in an exasperated tone.

'Potter,' I replied evenly.

'Malfoy, you...' He paused again and his eyes became even wider, which was actually quite a scary effect with his glasses and somewhat reminiscent of Professor Trelawney.

'I what?'

He gestured towards the dungeons. 'Nothing, Malfoy, I just realised...just go.'

And, for the first time in my life, I thought that maybe he had a point, so I headed back to the Common Room mentally chastising myself and all the more eager to finish my list and execute my cunning anti-Potter plot.

**Interlude: Kindness  
**

**kind **_adj_having or springing from the feelings natural for those of the same family; disposed to do good to others; benevolent.  
**kindness **_n_ the quality or fact of being kind; a kind act. O.E. _(ge)cynde –cynn, _kin

_Diary –_

_Why on Earth did I ever agree to be Hermione's stupid messenger?! God, I wish I'd just stand up to her once in a while, but it's bloody difficult, especially when Ron's decided that he doesn't want to have any involvement whatsoever in her love life._

_Yep, I spoke to Moon today. I never liked him, not really, even though I don't know him that well, and I wish he could hold a damn conversation without the words 'I understand'. No wonder he's a Hufflepuff, I don't know what the hell she sees in him... Then again, I can never say no to 'Mione or Ron, can I?_

_And now I sound like a complete bastard, sorry, Diary. I'm just tired, that's all. Not just tired in the not sleeping sense, but also tired of certain Slytherins who act like they've lost their minds the second they turn eighteen and then make stupid cryptic comments that aren't even clever._

_Bloody Malfoy._

_Yesterday, I thought that maybe we weren't so much sworn enemies anymore, but just...I dunno, playground rivals? A couple of idiots who've realised that they've held their grudges for longer than is natural? _

_Today he seemed to think like that, too: he was in Gladrags with Ron, 'Mione and me and he helped them force me into all kinds of awful clothes, including LEATHER TROUSERS_._ I'm not kidding, real leather. And he didn't even end up screaming at Ron and Hermione, he just kinda teased them and it wasn't even all that mean. _

_I just bloody wish he'd paid for the clothes himself: I could sense Ron's wince as the witch behind the counter told me how much it was going to cost and I still feel really guilty. Oh well, I suppose this time I can realistically blame it on Malfoy._

_So, yeah, about Malfoy. I know it's weird and scary (and sick and wrong on SO many levels), but I think 'Mione's right: I think he might fancy me._

_God, it's scary to see that written down. Malfoy...it's weird to even think it. But he acted like he was jealous of Moon this evening; and that's stooping really low. (NOTE TO SELF: stop being so mean, you sound like Malfoy himself) And he did spend a while staring at my arse in those trousers, but then again, so did Ron, and there's nothing there. At least, I hope not..._

_Anyway, I felt really guilty when he walked off earlier. I dunno, I think I might give him a chance. I mean, I did say yesterday that we weren't quite being bitter enemies any more, and he did seem genuinely hurt, which, as I'm sure I've mentioned, NEVER happens to Malfoy; his heart – if he has one, that is – is made out of some kind of really, really hard stone. _

_Then again, is that taking it too far? If he just wants to shag me – pretty likely, if the rumours about him are true – then maybe being slightly nicer to him isn't the best idea. Would he think I'm leading him on? Would he still respect me in his twisted way if I actually treated him better than I do now? Does he even DESERVE to be treated better?_

_Y'know, it's pretty pointless asking all these questions to a book, isn't it? I mean, it's not like Tom Riddle's gonna start replying to everything I write – at least, he'd better not. I think I'm gonna go speak to 'Mione and let her figure it all out without me mentioning any names. She's good at translating everything I say, which is useful when it's not her way of working out whether I've done any of my homework...which I haven't, I should really go do that now; Flitwick wanted the Charms essay in tomorrow._

_Night,_

_Harry_

'Envy according to the aspect of its object is contrary to charity, whence the soul derives its spiritual life... Charity rejoices in our neighbour's good, while envy grieves over it.'

Thomas Aquinas, Medieval theologian

**  
TBC...**

**  
AN: **OK, I am VERY sorry about the length of time it took to post this – I had problems with the Gladrags scene and tried to delete/alter it tons before realising it just made it worse. I'm still not happy, but it's relatively insignificant. Updates should be more frequent from now on.  
I am very much looking forward to posting the next chapter, too. 50 House Points to anyone who can guess which sin it is.


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